7 Deadly Sins
by LilLolaBlue
Summary: New York never sleeps. It breaks hearts, murders dreams, damns souls & eats the weak alive & screaming. Only the strong, the ruthless & the brutal survive & thrive. Only 7 Deadly Sins between the Comedian & his destiny. Who will avenge him? Me. 99% Canon.


**Chapter 1: Wrath**

**Gunga Diner, Manhattan, 1966**

**I: Zoe**

"What the fuck d'youse think you're lookin' at, Ralph? Ya fuckin' see somethin' green, ya sunnuvabitch?"

"I don't get youse, Zoe. Ya seem like an okay girl. You're not some crazy mask groupie who'd go with any kind of superhero, even a guy in a plastic cape leftover from Halloween, a fifty cent ski mask and a pair of his sister's tights. You're not here to stay warm until you see the pusher across the street you score from show up under the streetlight. And you're not some dumb kid from the Midwest who hasn't figured out the streets of the Lower East Side ain't paved with milk an' honey. And you sure ain't some vigilante nut job in a mask and pantyhose carryin' an armory on his belt. That's who comes here, at night. That's why I usually woik days. I mean, where the fuck has that guitar got you? Where's it gonna get you? Why dontcha use that college degree an' become a schoolteacher, or somethin'? Maybe get married. Have some kids. What kinda life is this for a woman?"

It was the Lower East Side, it was the middle of the winter and the middle of the night and Zoe was completely fucking enraged.

Same shit, different day.

"You know what I don't need, Ralph? Another fuckin' lecture. If I wanted to be home knocked up as big as a house with a whole buncha goddamn kids I half- hate tuggin' onna enda my housecoat with another one slobberin' on my tit, waitin' for some fat stupid impotent prick to come home from work an' beat the shit outa me if his fuckin' peas were mushy at dinnertime, I'd of fuckin' done that with my fuckin' life, wouldn't I? Just can that shit an' bring me another goddamn Coke."

"Okay, okay. Jesus, I'm just tryna tell youse somethin' for you own good, kid. I been workin' in this place a long time. I seen a lot of guitars, and horns, and what have you come in here with kids like you. Eventually, I see 'em in the window of the pawn shop down the street. And I don't see the owners, anymore. Although, sometimes, I think I recognize the faces on the junkies and bums a whores hangin' around."

"Yeah, well, lemme tell you, Ralph, I got somethin' they didn't."

"What? Talent? Looks? I heard that before."

Zoe showed him her hands, which still had a little dried blood on them.

"Nope. Rage. Some people try to fuck their way to the top. Others, to be a nice guy to everybody, a fucking toady. Not me. I will beat, bludgeon, kick, punch and crush my way there. My Pap was a boxer. He taught me how to use these hands to do more than just play guitar. Nobody likes pain. Or the sight of their own spurting fucking blood. I'll get somewhere with this guitar, Ralph. Even if I have to beat the blood, snot and teeth out of every low, slimy, chiseling cunt of a bar owner in New York. Machiavelli was right. It is better to be feared than to be loved." She replied.

Ralph shook his head.

"You're a brute, kid."

"Thank you."

* * *

><p>The Gunga Diner was cheap and Zoe liked it.<p>

It was close to her flop, close to most of her gigs, and interesting people hung out there.

Especially at two or three in the morning.

Zoe used the sleeve of her peacoat to rub some slushy dirt from the case of her 1956 gold top Les Paul, which she had bought when she was young and optimistic and on a scholarship to Columbia, to study jazz.

Was it really only six years ago?

It seemed like a lifetime.

Back then, she believed that a degree from Columbia would open doors for her.

And her skill.

And her talent.

Everybody who said, call me when you graduate.

All the professors who said kid, I'll see to it you get gigs in all the best places.

Every lying fucking mother's son of them.

And, oh, how the mighty have deluded the shit out of themselves, and fallen low.

Fuck'm.

Fuck'm all.

In the end, she still had one thing to rely on.

Brute heart of a brute like me.

I was born to this brutality.

I got one fist of iron and one fist of steel.

If the left one don't get you, the right one will.

"Ralph, you cocksucker! Where the fuck is my coke!" Zoe howled.

The door swung open and shut and with it came a blast of cold wind, a snowflake or three, and a regular customer.

"There she is. It's the Ace of Spades. You got blood on your coat, again, doll. Lots of it. On ya hands, too."

"Really? You got blood up to your elbows."

The Comedian chuckled.

"That's my job. What's your excuse?"

"That fat Polack bastard who runs that shit club down by Mason's Auto tried to give me fifty bucks for three fuckin' sets from a five piece band! What the fuck does he think I pay the guys who play with me in? Fucking blowjobs? I told him if he didn't gimme my three hundred I'd get it from him. He told me to take him to court, see if I can take a connected guy in court. Fuck him! Fuck court! I know how guys like him conduct business."

"You're a real poet, kid, I tellya, Wudja do?"

Zoe fished into the pocket of the pea coat and flashed a wad of crumpled bills, some of them spotted with fresh red blood at the Comedian, then shoved them back into her coat pocket.

"I got the money. That's my share. And there's blood on my coat. You know what I did. It's my fucking job, too."

Zoe scowled.

"What about you? That's a lot of blood. "

"Fags."

"What about 'em?"

"The mask game. It's lousy with fags. Fags, fags, fags. Jesus Christ? Hey, Ralph? What the fuck are ya doin' back there?"

"I'm makin yah food. Ya always get the same thing."

"Well, hurry the fuck up, huh? Where's Pat?"

"It's his night off."

"Yeah, and that's why the service sucks! Hurry the fuck up, willya? What are ya doin? Butcherin' the cow? What was I talking about, Doll?"

"Fags."

"Yeah. Goddamn mask game is fulla fags."

"So's the music business."

"What?"

"Fulla queers. Me, I don't give a shit. If you're a fag, you're a fag. It don't bother me."

"Yeah, well, I'm not talkin' about ordinary fags. I meet this asshole, and I can tell, right off, from his goddamn costume, this guy is a queer. And he thinks, he thinks he can come on my beat and give me shit? Wrong. So, he comes at me with all this fancy fight shit."

"Karate shit?"

"I dunno. Some of that Jap shit or Chink shit. I fuckin' handed him is ass. Dumb bastard wouldn't lay down and stay down. I hadda keep beatin' him until he looked like he was wearin' a red suit. I mean, I'm up to my elbows in blood. I better go wash my hands."

"Tell me how it ended up."

"Huh?"

"This cat you beat up. What happened?"

"Oh. Yeah. Well, finally he decides to stay down, an' I wasn't payin' any more attention to him. I just got some newspaper that was lyin' around and tried to wipe some of the blood off. And he asks me, like he was flirtin, I swear to God, 'What are you going to do, now' I look at the guy an' he's makin' eyes at me. Un-fuckin'-belivable."

"I dunno. You do go around dressed in chrome and black leather. Queers, they're into that shit."

"Maybe that's why there's' so many of them in my business, too. I guess they like the costumes."

The Comedian and Zoe had a laugh.

Ralph came out with a Coke and a cheeseburger and fries.

The Coke was flat and warm.

Zoe swore.

She picked up the glass, threw it, and jumped over the counter, howling, swinging, swearing and spitting.

Ralph ran into the back and locked himself in the kitchen.

Zoe threw herself against the door, five feet three inches and 145 pounds of fury, her curses devolving into Sicilian dialect.

The door did not give.

"Fuck it! I'm goin' home."

"Ya want me ta walk with ya, kid?"

"No! If some asshole fucks with me, I'll fuckin' rip his beating fucking heart out while he's still fuckin' breathin' an take a big, bloody bite out of it! Fuckin' city! Fuckin' assholes! Fuckin' world!"

Zoe buttoned her coat, jammed the watch cap son on her along, curly black hair, grabbed her guitar and opened the door.

"You gonna wash the blood off your hands before you eat?" she asked the Comedian.

"Did you?"

"Fuck it." Zoe replied.

She kicked a piece of slush out of the doorway, swore, scowled and walked out.

Ralph came out of the back room with a mop.

"That's one pissed off little Dago broad, Ralph." The Comedian commented, lighting his cigar.

"I never seen anythin' like her. The girl's a well, a goddamn endless well of constant, seething, overflowing rage and hatred. What happened to her?"

"It's what didn't. Kid goes to school for four years. On a scholarship to Columbia, to play guitar. Prob'ly so she can get outa the fuckin' gutter. An she's still she's eatin' here, livin' in the Bowery, playin' in dives. Wouldn't that make you mad, Ralphie-Boy?"

"I dunno."

"Aww, you're a fuckin' mook. You never had shit an' you never wanted shit. That's why youse can't even think about what it would be like ta lose somethin'. Ta lose everything."

**II: Eddie**

**Central Park West, a little later.**

Eddie banged on the back door of the posh townhouse, again.

"Open this fuckin' door! Open it or I'll fuckin' break it in!"

"You break my door in, Eddie, you cocksucker, I'll fuckin' kill you!"

"I mean it, Sal!"

"I'm standin here with a 12-gauge, Eddie! You come through this door, it'll be the last thing you ever do! I've killed better men than you!"

The Comedian stopped in his tracks.

He thought about the possibility that Sally might actually blow a large insulting hole in him the minute he came through her door.

There was actually a pretty good chance she'd do it.

He laughed, took a step back and hurled the full weight of his brawny, heavy body at the door, steel shoulder shields, first.

The doorjamb cracked and Eddie stumbled into the dark kitchen.

Sally was standing there, in her slip, brandishing a sawed-off shotgun.

"Hey, Sal? Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

Sally tossed the gun onto the kitchen table, and shoved him aside.

"Fuckin' hell, Eddie! You drunken fuckin' Mick asshole, what did you do my door?"

"Relax, Sally. It's nothin'."

"Nothin'? You broke my fucking door, you prick!"

"Stop screamin', willya? You're gonna wake Laurie up."

"Yeah? Like you busting in the fucking door didn't! Well? Are you gonna fix this goddamn door before you leave? Are you?"

"Sure. I know how to hang a door. It'll take me a half hour. I'll do it in the morning."

"In the morning? What makes you think you're sleepin' here?"

"Christ, Sal, do we hafta go through this every time? Every fuckin' time? Don't you ever get tired of this bullshit?"

The heard a door open, upstairs, and Laurie came out onto the landing, barefoot, in her nightgown, and leaned over the banister.

"I'm tired of it! Ma, news flash! You know what my earliest memory is? Larry steppin' over me like I was his dog. Ya know what my second earliest memory is? Eddie pickin' me up every time you left him in the back door in the middle of the day when Larry wasn't home. Give it a fuckin' rest, Ma, I'm tryna sleep! I got school tomorrow! Why din'cha just open the goddam door! It's only Eddie, fa' Chrissakes!"

"Go back to bed, Laurel Jane! And quit swearing! And put some clothes on! You're all grown up now." Sally demanded.

"Sal, you think I'm lookin'? Christ, even I'm not that low." Eddie interrupted.

Laurie came downstairs.

"Jesus, Eddie, look at the goddamn door! Holy shit!" she commented.

Eddie stood between Laurie in her shorty nightie and New York.

"Get away from the doorway, kid! Do youse know how many perverts there are roamin' around in the park at night? Go back to bed, like your Ma says."

"What are we gonna do about the door, Ma?" Laurie asked

"Eddie'll put a chair up against it and fix it in the morning. Go to bed. You got school in the morning."

Laurie muttered something under her breath and went back up the stairs.

Sally put the lights on in the kitchen.

"Jesus, Eddie, you're covered in blood! Not to mention, your eye's all swelled shut and you got a big, fat split lip! I can't believe somebody actually got one in one you."

"You oughta see the other guy." the Comedian chuckled.

He closed the door the best it could be closed and put a chair under the doorknob, to brace it.

"Sit down. I'll get a towel. Where did they get a mug fast enough to smack you around?" Sally asked.

"He's some new fag supervillain. He was a pretty good fighter, for a queer, though."

"A queer supervillain? How do you know he's gay? Did he make a pass at you after you handed him his ass?"

"Yeah."

"You're kiddin 'me!"

"No. I'm not. I beat the shit outa this punk bastard, an' he was makin' eyes at me. Flirtin' with me. And I mean, he really was somebody's punk, cos he did everything but unbuckle his belt an' call me Daddy. It's a fuckin' freak show out there, Sal. You oughta be glad you retired. An' you gotta be crazy to be puttin' Laurie out on those streets."

"It always had been a freak show, out there. And I was alright, wasn't I? Hell, the scariest son of a bitch I ever ran into was you. Besides I know you'll keep an eye out for her. And she's tough, Eddie. Tougher than me. She sure is your daughter, alright. Nothing scares her. Nothing. Well, you might as well go upstairs and get cleaned up. I'll be up in a few minutes. I gotta put this shotgun away, and clean the blood off the floor."

* * *

><p>A few nights later, the Comedian was sitting in his swank penthouse apartment, high above midtown Manhattan watching the Late Movie and talking on the phone.<p>

"…and you didn't have to put him in the hospital, Eddie. You don't have to be such a vicious animal."

"Nelly, don't talk dirty to me on the phone. I don't go that way. And everybody knows what you like."

"That has nothing to do with it!" Captain Metropolis replied.

"Come on, who do you think I am? Hollis Mason? Don't you think if I was gonna inject some new blood into the old crew, I'd pick a pretty young girl for me?"

"Adrian is more than a pretty young boy."

"Adrian? How much did his parents hate him? No wonder he grew up to be a fruit."

"Adrian Veidt."

"Adrian Veidt! No shit, really? So I beat the fuck outa the smartest man on the planet? Gee, I guess he ain't as smart as he thinks he is."

"I think he outsmarted himself, tangling with you. And Adrian is not going to be very pretty for the next few weeks."

"Just turn him around and don't look at his face. That's what he likes. It's what he wanted from me." The Comedian laughed.

"Really? Well, you're the one who patrols the docks in black leather. You can't blame the boy for making an honest mistake."

"Will you relax, Nelly? I'm sorry I roughed up yours and Rolf's new boyfriend. I didn't know he was the new guy. He didn't introduce himself. I told him to get lost if he knew what was good for him, and he took a fucking swing at me and split my lip. An' I didn't beat him up cos he came onto me. He came onto me after I beat him up. "

"What? After you beat him like that?"

"After I beat him like that. You and Mueller better watch out for this one."

"I don't know where Rolf is."

"Don't bullshit me, Nelly. I work for the G. And I don't care if the two of you fag it up, together, until you're ninety. Or how many pretty boys you pick up in the Village an' invite to the party. But this kid, there's something bent in him, bad, if takin' a world-class beating that landed him inna fuckin' hospital got him all worked up. He'll fuckin' kill one of youse in your sleep."

"Maybe he just wanted you to stop pounding on him."

"You keep telling yourself that, Nelly. Oh well, takes all sorts to make the fuckin' Watchmen, huh? Tell the kid I said so hard feelings. Of any kind."

All of the sudden, there was a heavy, frenzied knock on the door.

"Look, Nelly, I gotta go. Somebody's poundin' my door down."

"Who?"

"How should I know?"

"Well, do me a big favor, Jake LaMotta. Don't skip the next meeting. It's important. Adrian and I have been working on something new. Something very important."

"I can't wait."

"I'll bet."

Eddie was glad to get out of that conversation, but he wasn't sure what else he was getting into.

Whoever was at the door pounded on it with renewed vigor.

"Okay I'm comin', keep ya shorts on."

He loosely tied his robe, in front and answered the door.

It was Zoe, from the Gunga Diner, and she really did have blood up to her elbows.

She looked like she'd taken a bath in the stuff.

And she seemed pretty calm, steely and hard-eyed about it.

Never a good sign.

"I fucked up." She told him, matter-of-factly.

"Anybody in your family friends of the Family?" Eddie asked.

"My grandfather usedta be. But he's dead. Shit, if I was connected, would I be woikin' the shit gigs I am? Listen, I killed a guy. It wasn't business, it was self-defence. He died hard. He's in the back of my VW, wrapped and tied with rope in a tarp, hidden behind the amps. I don't know what to do. I never fuckin' hadda get rid of a body, before."

"An' you figure I'm the kinda guy who knows how to make a body disappear?"

"Look, I don't expect ya to do it outa the goodness of your heart. Maybe I'm not the best lookin' chick in the world—"

"I wouldn't say that. You're a kinda pretty girl. An' ya got a great set of tits."

"Thanks. Listen, you do me a favor, I'll do you a favor, alright? I mean, you ain't so bad, yourself."

Eddie thought about it.

"Ah, what the fuck? Gimme the keys. You go take a shower. Burn everything ya got on. Then burn the towel, and the washcloth, and clean the whole bathroom with Clorox. I'm gonna go get dressed."

"So, what do I do then?"

"I dunno. Watch some TV. You can borrow that shirt over there, if ya get cold. I'll be back in an hour."

* * *

><p>When Eddie came back, the broad was sitting there, watching Errol Flynn on TV, wearing his shirt.<p>

She had bruises on her throat in the shape of fat, thick fingers.

"It's taken care of."

He went into his bedroom, got undressed, put his robe back on, and went and got a beer.

"You wanna beer, kid?"

"I don't drink."

He bit off the cap on a bottle of Coke, spit it at the trash and brought the bottle to her.

"I saw a knot on what was left of the stiff's top. You get mugged?"

"Yeah. In between the fuckin' VW bus, an' my fuckin' doorstop. Not even fifteen fuckin' feet. He didn't say shit, just came outa nowhere, punched me inna mouth, an' put his hands around my throat."

"How didja get him off youse?"

"I can take a punch. But I didn't have nothin' but my car keys in my hand. I stabbed him in the eye with them, an he started screamin' an' put his hand over his eye. I mean his fuckin' eyeball popped out and landed inna street. You'd think most people, they'd take the hint and make tracks. But this asshole musta been hopped up on speed and coke and PCP, because he kept comin'. I grabbed a half a brick off the ground, an' I hit him in the head with it. He wouldn't go down. He came at me again, and again, an' I kept hittin' him with the brick. Finally I got the car door open. I hit him in the head with that, too. I got my gun off the seat, he came at me again and I shot him, in the head. I saw his fuckin brains, and bits of his skull shootin' outa the hole, an that's' when he quit comin. I didn't know what ta do. I was afraid ta call the cops. So I got the tarp and the rope, I wrapped him up, I got the super's hose and sprayed the street and I loaded him inna car with the ramp and the dolly we use for the amps, an' I came here."

"So you was scared to go to the cops for help, but not scared ta come to me? I guess that means I'm doin' my job. How the fuck did you find me, anyway."

"You're in the phone book. Blake, Edward M., Col. That's what it says."

"An' you knew that was me, how?"

Zoe shrugged.

"I'm from East New York. I hear things."

"Oh, a kid from the old neighborhood, huh? What's your last name?"

"I don't wanna tell you. You won't believe me."

"Hey, I just stuck my fuckin' neck out for you, sister! Answer the fuckin' question. An' don't lie to me. I'll find out, if youse did."

She didn't look away from the TV.

"Martorino."

"Martorino? You related to Sammy?"

She didn't say anything, at first, but she flinched and both her hands balled into fists, with knuckles permanently bluish from breaking.

"He was my grandfather."

The Comedian was quiet for a long time.

"That explains why youse figured you could come here."

"I still owe youse, Colonel Blake. Big time."

"Don't worry about it too much. So, how ya holdin' up?"

"What? I killed some piece of shit Knot Top, who wanted to rape me and rob me an' murder me, an' maybe not in that order. Fuck him. _Vafffanculo_! I hope he burns in Hell! I hope the prick goes right in the Devil's fuckin' mouth! I hope you pissed on him before you did whatever you did with the body! Right in the fuckin' hole in his head! Fuck him. I don't care."

The kid's green eyes went hard and black as she spoke and her muscles knotted up in anger.

She wasn't lying, Eddie could tell.

"Calm down, kid. The prick's dead. Youse can't kill him again. Well, are ya shook up about what happened to youse, then? Not him?"

"Yeah, I'm fuckin' shook up about it! Who wouldn't be? I almost got killed, I killed a guy, I got work tomorrow at nine, yeah, I'm fuckin' shook up!"

"What's your day job?'

"I'm a teacher's assistant. At Columbia. I work three days a week. Four, sometimes. When I finish school, maybe I'll become a professor. I dunno."

"Well, fuckin' go home, then. I'll catch up to you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Almost gettin' killed never puts a girl in the mood. If it does, she's a broad I don't wanna know."

"Thanks. But I burned my pants."

"You had some clothes inna car. I brought the bag in. It was open. I didn't go through it, or nothin'."

The kid went into the bathroom, got dressed and came out.

She headed for the front door.

"Hey, kid?"

"What?"

"What happened to the guy who killed your grandfather?"

"He's dead."

"I know he's dead. I wanna know who killed him."

Zoe smiled.

"I did."

* * *

><p>Eddie left the country for a few weeks.<p>

He had some work to do in South America, in the jungle, and then in Monteviedeo, Uruguay.

When he was locating and then burning the coca fields, he didn't have much time to think.

Sitting up in the window of the old Spanish building with the rifle, waiting, he had a lot of time.

He thought about the girl.

About that anger in her, that fountain of black anger that was like blood spurting up out of a torn artery, hot and thick.

He'd grown up in a neighborhood that was about half Irish and half Italian and most of the wops were Sicilians, and a lot of them had tempers to rival the Irish, but the girl, hers was worse.

She was a real killer, a born killer.

The Comedian wondered what the wellspring of that fury was.

Maybe she was there, when Sammy died.

And she said she found they guy who did it, and killed him.

It made him wonder if Sammy's' killer had died as hard as the Knot Top had.

He'd taken the body out of the tarp, and there wasn't much left of the Knot Top's head, and it wasn't from the bullet hole in his forehead.

Most of the damage was from being repeatedly smashed with a brick, over and over and over again, with great force and great hate and fury.

He had one eye missing, too, Christ only knew where the eyeball went after she jammed her car key into it.

Eddie saw the motorcade coming and lifted the gun to his shoulder.

_If the girl fucks the way she fights, she's gonna turn out to be one hot little broad._

Well, it was something to come home to, better than nothing at all.

* * *

><p>She looked him up in the phone book?<p>

_Gee, Eddie, maybe that little joke, hiding in plain sight, putting yourself in the fucking phone book, maybe it wasn't so goddamn funny._

Well, two could play at that game.

There was something familiar about the address and the number in the phone book, and that's when Eddie realised it was the Boy Scout's place.

Wait a fucking second.

If Danny Boy was keeping a broad like that happy, he must have been a hell of a lot better man than he seemed to be.

Eddie put a sock over the reciever of the telephone and put on an Irish brogue, like his father's.

"Hello?"

"Is Zoe there?"

"Who's calling?"

Eddie thought fast.

That coat the girl had, it wasn't the kind you could buy in the Army Surplus stores, you had to get it right from the PX.

He went out on a limb.

"Major Morgan."

"Are you the ROTC guy?"

"ROTC's over after you leave undergrad, son."

"Well, I know you guys are paying for her graduate school, too."

"Which is what I need to talk to Second Lieutenant Martorino about."

"You're not pulling her funding, are you?"

"At ease, lad. We're not pulling her funding."

"That's good. I can't believe Zoe didn't tell you guys she moved! That's not like her."

"It's probably in the paperwork, son. We're about four months behind on it."

"Oh. Right. Well, I'm pretty sure the move isn't permanent."

Christ, Danny Boy was an easy mark.

Not a good thing, in a mask.

Me and the Boy Scout, we're going to have to have a little talk about opening your mouth and having your guts come out, without you even knowing it.

"Was there a name change form, as well?"

"Huh? Oh, no, no, uh I'm just Zoe's roommate. Her completely platonic roommate. Zoe would never do something like that. Oh shit. I didn't mean that. I mean, she wouldn't do something like that with me. No, that wasn't right either. Shit! What I mean is, well, she doesn't go around with just anybody. Is that important?"

A good girl.

Shit, they still make good girls in New York, in 1966?

"Son, this is the Marine Corps, not the Catholic Church. We don't peek into our soldiers' bedrooms in their free time. Just as long as you weren't Danielle Drieberg, there isn't a problem. Now, you say this relocation isn't permanent?"

"Well, no. At least I think it isn't. But that's not good enough for you guys, is it?"

"It would explain why I didn't receive formal notification. Have you got a new contact number?"

"Uh, wait. Let me think. It's, uh, (212) 477-3165."

"Thanks." Eddie finished, curtly, and hung up.

* * *

><p>Paying your way through college and grad school in Marine ROTC during a war was pretty risky business, even for a broad.<p>

She wasn't going to be in the infantry or artillery, and she wasn't going to be flying a bomber, either, but that didn't mean she wasn't going to get shipped off to the jungle.

The Comedian thought about the dead Knot Top, his bloody eye socket, and his battered, deformed head.

Maybe she figured she could march that fury off to the Marines, and get a medal for being a vicious two-tone son of a bitch, instead of jail time, stateside.

The Comedian used the phone number the Nite Owl had given him to find the broad's address, and a few nights later, he cased her apartment on the Lower East Side.

Or as they used to call it, when he was a kid, the Bowery.

He didn't sit in a car, he was in the condemned building across the street, with a telescope.

Around two in the morning, who should come by, but the Inkblot?

Rorschach?

What the fuck was he doing, hanging around some broad's place?

He had to be related; Rorschach didn't run around with broads.

He didn't run around with anybody.

Rorschach sat on the stoop for awhile, then he paced the sidewalk, and looked down the street, then he sat on the stoop again.

He was pretty jumpy and fairly steamed up, too.

When the girl's VW bus pulled up, the Inkblot did everything but jump in front of it; he opened the door and hauled the girl out of the driver's seat.

Eddie could see him pointing his finger in her face.

She pulled her arm away, and said something smart to him, but Rorschach, he shut the kid right down, and Eddie didn't think that was possible.

Finally, she threw her arms up in the air and gave him her keys.

He went into the apartment and came back with a box, and went in and out three more times and each time he went in, she put what he brought out in the bus.

Rorschach got behind the wheel, and while the kid was arranging the stuff in the back, Eddie went down and got his car.

He followed them.

Very carefully.

He figured a paranoid son of a bitch like Rorschach would know how to spot, and ditch, a tail.

Maybe the kid would, too.

They drove up to Danny Boy's joint, which was in the Village, but barely.

Danny Boy was waiting, outside, on his stoop, and when the girl got out, he ran over to her and gave her a big awkward hug.

Yeah.

He may have never touched her, but he sure wants to, the poor son of a bitch.

Then Danny Boy started carrying boxes in.

Eddie parked his car at the end of the street and came walking by, like he was on his way to the Gunga Diner and just happened to pass Danny's.

Because you had to pass Danny Boy's joint, to get there.

"It's a little late ta move house, ain't it, Danny Boy?" he asked.

"That's none of your business." Dan snapped.

"Daniel, please. That attitude is counterproductive. Comedian, I take it you've met Miss Martorino?"

"Yeah. She keeps the sane hours we do. Eats at the same joints. What surprises me is seein' you in a doll's company."

Rorschach bristled, noticeably.

"I am responsible for Miss Martorino's safety. She was living in a bad neighborhood. Got mugged. Moving her back with Daniel. Where she's safe."

"A relative, huh? I thought so. I didn't know you was Italian."

"I'm not. We lived in the same place, as children. My foster sister. Go in the house, Zoe."

"Look, I didn't eat, yet, tonight. As long as I'm here, I'm goin' to the Gunga Diner, to go an' get food."

Zoe started walking, and Rorschach grabbed her arm.

"You're not the boss of me, big brother! I can take care of myself! With or without this."

She patted her pea coat, just about where you'd expect a shoulder holster to be.

"Not safe to walk alone. Even if you are armed."

"I'll walk with her. I'm goin' there, myself." The Comedian volunteered

Rorschach nodded.

"Thank you. Daniel, the other box, please."

The Comedian and Zoe walked down the street.

"If he wasn't my goddamn brother, sometimes, shit, I'd like to knock the SOB on his ass! I don't need a fuckin' escort to go anywhere!"

"That's right, baby. You're the Ace of Spades. You can kill the badguys all on your own. An youse can go to jail for it. That's' what big brother was tryna tell youse. There's only so many bodies even guys like me an' your brother an' Danny Boy can hide. So, how'd you get to be related to Rorschach?"

Zoe gave him a very dirty look.

"What? Who the fuck am I gonna tell? I could find out if I wanted to. Anything. About anybody. Sherlock Holmes ain't got shit on me. But I respect the guy's privacy. He's a good mask, the best we've got, even if he is a little bit fuckin' nuts. I don't know much about your, uh, your foster brother, there. He's a tight-lipped guy. But I do know he grew up in an orphan's home."

"That's how. So did I. He's three or four years older'n me. See, I usedta fight a lot when I got there. You had to. It was that kind of place. Everybody got so they were scared of me. Like they were scared of him. He was never sacred. He looked after me. Nobody else has. Look, I know he's kind of a fuckin' weirdo, my brother, but don't gimme shit about him, alright?"

"I ain't, doll. I ain't. Why didn't you go see him? About the stiff? Trust me, your brother, he knows how to get rid of a stiff."

"I didn't want him to know."

"You didn't wanna be Danny Boy's upstairs tenant again, huh?"

Zoe stopped walking.

"What do you think I am, some kinda stupid cunt? I'd leave my brother's partner, my best friend, and a nice safe place to live, where he didn't have to worry about me an move to a shithole in the Bowery because I wanted to prove I don't need my brother? Fuck you! He's the only family I got. I do need him. I didn't want him to know because he doesn't need to know I killed somebody and I don't give a shit if I did. He worries about me, enough. An' I moved to the Bowery because me and my brother, we had a fight. A big fight. It didn't have shit to do with Dan. I know you think he's a fuckin' chump, and maybe he kinda is, but he's my friend. Anyway, things are resolved now. My brother was right. It ain't worth dyin over. Anyway, that's it. He don't watch me 24 hours or nothin', though. I got my own life. And I still owe you. Remember?"

They got to the Gunga Diner and went in.

The Comedian sat in a booth, and Zoe sat across from him.

"You play Friday and Saturday nights?"

"Yeah. And I woik on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday."

"What if I see you Thursday? Here. Around 7."

"Ain't that a little early for you?"

"Thursday is my night off. Wear a skirt, huh? I like to see a girl in a skirt."

"I only got jeans skirts. You want I should go buy somethin' else?"

"Nah. It's alright. You hungry?"

"Yeah, but I'm a musician. I'm also broke."

"Just get some food, sister."

"Zoe."

"Eddie."

"Fine."

* * *

><p>Eddie did a little checking up on Zoe Martorino.<p>

She was born on February 15, 1945.

Her mother was Cindy Martorino, Age: 22, Race: White, Ethnicity: Sicilian.

She was deceased, in parenthesis.

Her father was unknown, unknown age, also a Sicilian.

She was raised in East New York by her grandfather, a white-haired short guy with a build like a bull, an ageing longshoreman named Sammy Martorino.

A man who, in another lifetime, had been known as Sammy Fireplug, a light heavyweight boxer and the childhood friend and faithful driver of the most feared, cruel, sadistic and calculating Irish gangster in Brooklyn's theory, if not in the whole city.

Michael Patrick Blake, aka Mick the Merciless, aka Good Lookin' Mickey Blake.

Mickey Blake had been an unmitigated monster, a psychopathic torturer and sadistic pervert who enjoyed his job beating, torturing, and murdering people.

In his free time and as part of the services he offered relayed to his work, Mick the Merciless also pursued the rape of anything human that he could beat unto submission long enough to penetrate it.

And if it happened to die while he was having his fun, oh well.

Mickey Blake died, in his own kitchen, under mysterious circumstances in 1937, the year his oldest son, Eddie, turned 14.

Sammy Martorino, who retired from the rackets after his friend died and from boxing after his daughter died, raised his granddaughter, and took all the care with her he never had with his mother.

In 1955, he was fatally knifed in a mugging, right in front of his little granddaughter.

Who, in front of a beat cop running to the scene, pulled the mugger's knife out of her dying grandfather and plunged it into the mugger, repeatedly, until the cop pried her off the punk's corpse.

In 1960, she was 15 and got a scholarship to study jazz guitar at Columbia University.

Zoe lived off campus with her brother, a man who's name she didn't give to the registrars; office.

In 1962 she lost the scholarship due to federal budget cuts, and jointed Women's Marine ROTC.

In 1963, she moved into the second floor apartment of a brownstone in Greenwich Village owned by a wealthy college buddy of hers, a guy named Dan Drieberg.

He owned the place, outright and had inherited it from his father, so he never charged his impoverished pal any rent.

Maybe she fixed his car for him; probably she helped him build all his Nite Owl gadgets.

Most likely it was Zoe who introduced her nerdy poindexter egghead roomie to her crazy shut-in vigilante brother.

Zoe graduated from college in 1964 and spent the next two years the same way she had the previous four.

Pursing her musical career in a few different bands, jazz bands, rock bands, blues bands, trying to get somewhere, make a name for herself.

As for her military career, Second Lieutenant Morgan was promoted to First Lieutenant 18 months after graduation.

She was a sharpshooter and weapons specialist who was also skilled at hand-to-hand combat.

Had Zoe Martorino been Joe Martorino, she wouldn't have been going into any orchestra, no matter how good a of a guitar player she was.

The USMC was paying for her graduate school musical education because she was being groomed for a position as a guitarist in the USMC Jazz Orchestra.

On Tuesday and Thursday mornings, she drilled the Tri-State Area WROTC recruits, and although a Reserve Officer, First Lieutenant Martorino had been called up for several active duty assignments on bases in the continental United States.

Some of them had to do with her training recruits in the handling and care of weapons and some of them had to do with her training other sharpshooters, but most of the missions had to do with the motor pool; evidently the kid was one hell of a mechanic.

From 1960 onward, her day job was, of all things, as a mechanic at Mason's Auto, until she enrolled in graduate school at Columbia, on Uncle Sam's dime.

Zoe did not work on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday mornings as a teacher's assistant, she still worked as a mechanic at Mason's Auto.

Zoe Martorino had been arrested twice for simple assault and once for assault and battery, but all three cases were dropped.

She didn't drink or smoke cigarettes, or reefers, for that matter and she wasn't on hop or coke or speed, or any of that other shit.

She wasn't known to have ever had any serious boyfriends, although she had played with the same drummer since 1960; who also worked at Mason's Auto.

John "Blackjack" Madden, a black-haired, blue-eyed hulking Irishman from Hell's Kitchen.

And that was all Eddie could find.

Like Rorschach, Zoe was tight-lipped and played it pretty close to the vest.

One thing was for sure, she wasn't some dumb whore who was always drunk and high and spread it around all over town; it made the Comedian take the offer she made him a lot more seriously.

Danny Boy knew her pretty well, and he said she didn't fuck around with everybody.

Hell, she lived with the man and she'd never even fucked him, although, Eddie could see why a woman wouldn't be too interested in the Boy Scout.

Still, the kid was offering him something that meant something to her, in exchange for him getting rid of the Knot Top's body.

She understood what a debt was, and what it was to know you had to pay it, or you word wasn't worth shit.

* * *

><p>She showed up at his apartment on Thursday night in an actual women's wool coat; it was double breasted and had a drape and military-looking gold buttons.<p>

It looked expensive.

Danny Boy probably bought it for her.

Poor bastard.

He buys her a nice coat and she wears it to go meet another guy.

Under the coat was a skirt and a striped jersey, and she had on a pair of tights and those elastic-sided boots you saw everybody her age wearing.

Zoe was a fairly pretty girl with a nice set of tits when she was perched on a stool at a diner at three in the morning wearing the peacoat and dungarees she used to load and unload musical equipment, spewing insults and rage at her lot in life.

In a skirt and a sweater, even a skirt made out of dungarees, and a pair of tights and a coat that wasn't made for a guy who works on the docks, without her face twisted up in malice, she was a little more than just pretty.

Put some make-up on her, and she could have been one of these Italian starlets that cropped up in every movie you went to.

Eddie had a thing for redheads, but he was willing to make exceptions.

"You clean up pretty good, Zoe."

"Yeah, thanks. Jesus, I didn't really take a good look at this place, last time I was here. Your goddamn bathroom is probably half the size of the apartment I grew up in. So, ah, do we go out first? An' I don't have any special fuckin' underwear, or anything, I'm sorry."

"Hey, Zoe, listen. I didn't fuckin buy you from some nigger pimp over the phone. You're not a whore. Don't talk like one."

She just shrugged.

"Look, I did some checkin' up on you. You ain't the kind of broad who offers herself to a man like a piece of candy. I mean, shit, if I wasn't me, I could get fuckin' court-martialled for takin' youse to bed under false pretences."

"I wouldn't tell. Besides this has got nothin' to do with the Marines. I killed a guy, an' I came over here inna middle of the night, covered in blood an' asked youse to help me. You don't know me from Adam. But youse still saved my ass. I'd offer to kill somebody for youse, but I know you got all that shit covered. I could only think of one other thing to cover a debt like that."

"Forget it, kid. I still owe Sammy. He was never like Pop was. And he was the only one who could get the old man back on Earth, after he went on some big nut fit. When Pop was in jail, Sammy took care of us. You're his granddaughter. You killed the piece of shit who murdered him. I still owe you. For Sammy."

"I dunno. It seems wrong to me, for us not to settle up, some way."

Eddie just laughed.

"Listen, Zoe. I get the picture. Sammy figured if he didn't raise you to be no princess you wouldn't end up like your Ma. And there's no room ta be a princess in an orphanage, not ta mention the Inkblot ain't exactly knowledgeable about women. Then, the G pulls your dough and you gotta sign up ta finish school. Not ta mention, like ya say, a lotta guys who do your job think the only place in the music business for a broad is on their knees. It's a man's world for you, kid, alla way. But, listen, ya don't hafta disguise it as a debt of honor if ya like me, yunno? You wanna settle up for the Knot Top? Fine. I don't have one of those fuckin' electric piecea shit fuckin' cars. How about you do all the work on my car for me?"

That brightened the kid up.

"Yeah. I could do that. Look, I appreciate this, Eddie. In my business, if you get high and get drunk an' fuck everybody, men lose respect for youse. They don't take youse seriously as a musician, they treat youse like the dumb chicks who follow guys who play music, around. And you prob'ly know just what guys in the service think about chicks in uniform who lift their dress skirt for everybody."

"Yeah I know all about that. Hey, the world's fulla broads, right? Not alla you women hafta like it so much."

"Whoa there, man! I didn't say I didn't like it! I'm about as frigid as a goddamn blast furnace in Hell. I also didn't say I wasn't innarested in youse. I just don't spread it around. Man, these chicks who come from, I dunno, Frog Balls, Iowa, they are so dumb. Don't get me wrong, peace and love sounds like a great idea and I'm all for it. I'm gonna be in the Marines Orchestra, ya know? Only thing is, too may assholes in this town would love to get a piece of youse. How do these chicks know some guy aint gonna beat 'em up and rob 'em? Or wait till they fall sleep an' rob the place. Maybe he's casin' the joint, when she's out he'll come back with some guys he knows and take everything. How do ya know youse didn't bring home some freak who's gonna do weird shit to youse, or some sicko who wants to kill youse? There' a lot more weird, sick freaks in goddamn New York than I'll bet there are anyplace else, except maybe LA. I don't like most people. An I don't trust 'em. Most guys, I wouldn't stop and tell the dumb bastards which way the fuckin' subway was, let alone take my pants off for a stranger. It's dumb. I mean, I know you ain't like that. But ya know, all we did is talk a little bit inna Gunga Diner inna middle of the night and youse bought me a cheeseburger an' fries. Call me old-fashioned, but I ain't that easy? I'm a fuckin' officer, ya know? I got some class to me, even if I am from East New York."

Eddie laughed.

"Sure, kid I get it. I ain't no rapo, no matter what you hoid. An' I'm not what you'd call hard up ta get laid. So let's you an' me just go out this week. Maybe next week, too. And what happens, it happens."

"Yeah. Give nature a fuckin' chance to take its course."

Eddie laughed.

"Ya know, for a nice girl, Lieutenant Matrorino, you got a hell of a dirty mouth."

Zoe shrugged and she actually smiled back.

"Nature of my business, Colonel Blake."

"Yeah. I'll bet."


End file.
